Flowers of France in the Spring,
Your growth is a beautiful thing;
But give us your fragrance and bloom,
Yea, give us your lives in truth,
Give us your sweetness and
To brighten the
Of the flower of manhood and youth,
Gone into the dust of the tomb.
This is the vast stupendous hour of Time,
When nothing counts but sacrifice and faith,
Service and self-forgetfulness.
And awful are these moments charged with
And red with slaughter.
Yet God's purpose
In all this holocaust of human lives.
I say God's purpose thrives.
Just in the
That men have flung away their lust for gain,
Stopped in their mad pursuit of worldly pleasure,
And boldly faced unprecedented
And dangers, without thinking of the cost,
So thrives God's purpose in the holocaust.
Death is a little thing: all men must die;
But when ideals die,
God grieves in Heaven.
Therefore I think it was the reason
This Armageddon to the world was given.
The Soul of man, forgetful of its birth,
Was losing sight of everything but earth.
Up from these many million graves shall springA shining harvest for the coming race.
An Army of Invisibles shall bringA glorified lost faith back to its place.
And men shall know there is a higher
Than earthly triumphs for the human soul.
They are not dead—they are not dead,
I say,
These men whose mortal forms are in the sod.
A grand Advance-Guard marching on its way,
Their Souls move upwards to salute their God!
While to their comrades who are in the
They cry, "Fight on!
Death is the dawn of life."We had forgotten all the depth and
And lofty purport of that old true
Deplaced by pleasure—that old good word duty.
Now by its meaning is the whole world stirred.
These men died for it; for it, now, we give,
And sacrifice, and serve, and toil, and live.
From out our hearts had gone a high
For anything.
It took a mighty
Against great evil to wake strong emotion,
And put us back upon the righteous path.
It took a mingled stream of tears and
To cut the channel through to Brotherhood.
That word meant nothing on our lips in peace:
We had despoiled it by our castes and classes.
But when this savage carnage finds surceaseA new ideal will unite the masses.
And there shall be True Brotherhood with men—The Christly Spirit stirring earth again.
For this our men have suffered, fought, and died.
And we who can but dimly see the
Are guarded by their spirits glorified,
Who help us on our way, while they ascend.
They are not dead—they are not dead,
I say,
These men whose graves we decorate to-day.
America and France walk hand in hand;
As one, their hearts beat through the coming years:
One is the aim and purpose of each land,
Baptised with holy water of their tears.
To-day they worship with one faith, and
Grief's first Communion in God's House of Woe.
Great Liberty, the Goddess at our gates,
And great Jeanne d'Arc, are fused into one soul:
A host of Angels on that soul
To lead it up to triumph at the goal.
Along the path of Victory they tread,
Moves the majestic cortège of our dead.
Flowers of France in the Spring,
Your growth is a beautiful thing;
But give us your fragrance and bloom—Yea, give us your lives in truth,
Give us your sweetness and
To brighten the
Of the flower of manhood and youth,
Gone into the dust of the tomb.
